Thursday, April 30, 2009

Don't let Larry Nelson's baggy eyes, shaggy hair, mouthing of the script, and all around haggard malaise distract you, let alone the presence and non-contributions of tag team partner Doug "Pretty Boy" Summers and manager Sherri Martel, this clip is all about the swagger of "Playboy" Buddy Rose, a grandiosity, vanity, overconfidence, and conceit that he conveyed so effortlessly and vividly (and I'm sure took absolute pleasure in doing so) throughout his career.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

A glossy eyed, yet to de-pants Buck "Rock and Roll" Zumhoffe-refereeing a match between a midget in a pair of Payless Shoe Source sneakers and a only slightly taller chick wearing moccasin boots-in a compact ring erected in the middle of a prairie-on a mat that may or may not be a water bed-surrounded by seating constructed out of boards and cinder blocks-at the town of Webster Minnesota's 2007 Harvest Days Festival-which appears to have been attended by a total of zero people.

Have I mentioned to you all lately how much I love professional rasslin'?

Monday, April 27, 2009

It's been a busy day here in the Arabian Facebuster Sexy Action Newsroom, first the unexpected resurrection of Hulk Hogan's Pastamania -- well the awning anyway and to a lesser extent the spirit of mediocrity and gouging the consumer on which it was founded -- followed by its equally sudden demise (yet again), and now this:

WSOC-TV in Charlotte reported Reid Fliehr (Flair) was arrested yesterday on felony charges of heroin possession after Charlotte-Mecklenburg police claimed they found heroin in his car when he was pulled over. The 21-year-old Fliehur was also charged with driving while impaired and driving with a revoked license.

Based upon his brief, glaringly green run in the dying days of the Double U See Double U, who'd have thunk that David Flair would turn out to be the most mature, responsible, successful, and stable of the Flair litter?

No Facebuster Nation, yr peepers are not playing tricks on you. Yes, that's the awning from Pastamania!, Hulk Hogan's futile attempt to siphon the customer base of the Olive Garden and cut into the market share of Chef Boyardee as a pre-whoring out his husky and slow-witted daughter approach towards income diversification. It appears to have been affixed on the side or rear of an unkempt storefront, perhaps as some sort of joke or ruse. The distinctive colorful high-rise, low-income building

eye sore behind it verifies that this awning is located in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood of Minneapolis, just steps from the Triple Rock Social Club and its free bacon, $2 PBR tall boy Wednesday's and the Town Hall Brewery with its high octane growlers of IPA and Hefeweizen. The "612" area code on the towing sign and aqua-n-white license plates on the idle minivans (whose owners likely drive them at 10 miles below the posted speed limit at all times) lends further credence to my awesome powers of skyline recognition.

Therefore, as part of the 2nd and 1/2 annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference & Fan Conclave, I propose that we rent a nondescript, unmarked delivery truck, pay a visit this authentic artifact of sports entertainmentcana in the shadow of the "crack stacks" as they are commonly known around these parts even though its tenants are predominantly Somali and East African immigrants, steal the awning under the cover of darkness (a reference to the time of day, not an insinuation that we assimilate a heavily armed, poorly trained, trigger happy band of Somalis into our felonious yet pious plans), celebrate our successful and highly lucrative heist with swine and ale from the nearby emporiums, and fasten said plunder above the back deck at Malibu Manor.

Then Buck "Rock & Roll" Zumhoffe will surely be willing to put on one of his renowned backyard wrestling, barbecue, karaoke, meth smoking, and arbitrary pants removing extravaganzas.

Additional reconnaissance of the surrounding area may be performed here.

Update: According to one of the Pastamanioids, the building in question has been demolished. Drats, my best laid plans foiled again!

Later Update: A blog chronology of the destruction is available for yr perusal here. I've added my favorite photo from this gentleman's site in the body of this post.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

The above clip sent Th' Geek and me into paroxysms of hysterical laughter when it popped up during last night's wrestle-viewing. Short and undeniably sweet, it features living(?) legend (??) Larry Zybysko hyping the latest "Bulk-Up While-U-Wait" supplement to hit the market: MORPHOPLEX! It will keep you from joining all of Larry's old pals in th' boneyard, and it appears that Morphoplex can also magically transport you to a windswept beach as well! All while giving you the sort of Freakishly Huge physique that will Get You Over with the brass at the ol' double-double-E (I think Dave Batista knows what I'm talking about, here)!

So take it straight from Larry himself: "You don't need steroids... anymore." Whew, that's a relief. I can finally tell Randy Orton to quit jabbing me in the ass.

With the STEROID NEEDLE! Christ, you people have filthy minds.

P.S. The bit where the caption reads, "Steroids Kill"? By the look of things, steroids mainly kill grass in ill-maintained municipal cemeteries.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Q: What happens when you combine notorious habitual steroid abuser and strapping leading man Lyle Alzado, a talented supporting ensemble featuring Orthodox Jewish teen heartthrob newcomer YannickBisson whose boy next door looks, cunning yet wholesome grin, and closet full of Espirit sweaters and Union Bay acid washed jean jackets makes Kirk Cameron come across as a poor man's Rob Stone (the guy played the oldest Owens boy on TV's Mr. Belvedere) by comparison, a premise with more holes than Nick Hogan's defense at trial (or if you prefer, than Jeff Hardy's jizz rag post trailer fire), the musical artist and trusty synth machine that recorded the "Gimmie A Break" and "Silver Spoons" theme songs, and the superstars of the National Wrestling Alliance circa 1987?

A: A comedy serial about the joys and challenges of fatherhood as a single parent and the trials and tribulations of a career in professional rasslin'. Universal critical acclaim. Emmy consideration. Eventual enshrinement in the Television Academy Hall of Fame. And residual checks in the amount of $1.08 dispersed biennially to the surviving, non-incarcerated cast members.

Oh, and no way was that stiff in Lex Luger's Human Torture Rack Lyle Alzado. I suspect it was a jobber the caliber of a Vernon Deaton, George South, Brodie Chase, or juiced to the gills Mulkey brother.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Here at Arabian Facebuster, we despise all things ordinary, adequate, average, and predictable with regard to professional rasslin'. That is why we are committed to provide our readership (of 8) with a healthy, balanced diet of the absolute very best AND the absolute very worst that this noblest of faux athletic contests has to offer.

But we take extra pleasure in serving up and dishing out the very worst.

From Randy Orton's uncanny willingness and ability to evacuate his bowels without any care or concern for the presence of toilet paper or a flushable porcelain receptacle, to Larry Nelson's liver of steel and knack at distracting viewers from the fact that he slugged down a half-dozen TQ & tonics prior to the TV taping through his wild gesticulations, dainty microphone gripping technique, and stained AWA embroidered blazer (or when in Las Vegas at the fabulous Showboat Casino and Sports Pavilion, a red polyester cumberbun), to Chyna's bulbous lady parts that look like and presumably are tantamount to in terms of smell and texture the Arby's Big Montana with extra horsey sauce I had for lunch this afternoon, to Buck Rock n' Roll Zumhoffe's...er...um...to Buck Rock n' Roll Zumhoffe, we here at Arabian Facebuster like to envision ourselves as the USDA food pyramid of bloggery on professional rasslin's ridiculous and absurd -- rigorous bordering on unduly complicated, absolute in our proclamations, impervious to/divorced from contemporary socioeconomic and cultural realities, and wholly ineffectual in its stated purpose (in the case of the food pyramid that would be to promote healthy eating and reduce obesity, in Arabian Facebuster's, to eviscerate the paradigm known as sports entertainment by systematically refuting the theoretical tenets, assumptions, and basic premises on which it is constructed ...an appetite for whimsy, a soap operatic storyline mindset, giving precedence to writing over booking, swerving the audience for the sake of swerving the audience, performers that possess the same artificially obtained and larger than life muscles and definition (i.e. "the look"), characters whose bland personalities and similar movesets make them interchangeable, the intermittent incorporation of "mainstream" "stars" into the narrative, exposure of the business that ranges from thoughtless to short-sided, and a sentiment towards Hulk Hogan that occupies the space between qualified appreciation and unconditional adulation*).

Speaking of the worst, I encourage all of you to feast yr eyes and crank the vertical volume bar to maxed out on the clip above, featuring Camp Slaughter's newest and most promising string bean armed, pasty cheeked recruit, the AWA's #1 babyface (by inheritance via birthright and by booking sheet, not by fan reaction) Greg "Rambo" Gagne (son of the famed nursing home murderer Verne Gagne). Unintentional comic affects notwithstanding, this clip is replete with the sexual taboo and homosexual innuendo that th' Facebuster's discerning readership craves -- Greg Gagne's reverse Nestea plunge from the water, Greg Gagne running out of the lake in a manner that suggests he was trying to detach a couple of tenacious northern pikes from his doughy calves, Greg Gagne bump-'n-grinding the ground with the same positioning and sensuous thrusting technique he employed on his wedding night to little fanfare, Greg Gagne hurling phallic shaped logs into a 10' high pile as part of an experimental approach to streamline the chopping process, and *gulp* Greg Gagne wanting to show his gratitude to Sarge in way commensurate to how Greg feels inside about him.

No wonder this promotion went bankrupt and belly up just five years later.

Soundtrack provided by the Manhattan Transfer.

*Portions of this rant were inspired by the commentary of Jim Cornette*.**Yes, I realize that the company that gainfully employs Cornette, Total Nonstop Action!, is guilty of employing many of the same practices and tendencies that he so effectively derides.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Arabian Facebuster is proud to announce the convening of its 2nd and 1/2 annual (or if you prefer, 1st semi-annual) Staff Conference and Fan Conclave, May 13-19 in lovely St. Paul, MN.

Malibu Manor -- the cavernous, lavishly appointed estate of yours truly Malibu Sands -- will serve as ground zero for the week's alcohol, sausage, and cheese log fueled proceedings, with the nearby Dorothy Day Center & Emergency Shelter providing cots, hot meals of nourishing gruel and succulent cow hooves, state of the art amenities such as carpeted hallways, round the clock police surveillance, the opportunity to bathe yourself with running water in semi-privacy as opposed to your own urine in front of your fellow derelicts, a washer & dryer (estimated wait time 72 hours), and a secure locker for your collection of about to be recycled cans, complimentary mental health assessments, daily lice and hepatitis screenings, and a diminished sense of purposelessness and despondence to conclave attendees in the event we require overflow capacity.

The itinerary is already coming together nicely, although proposals for breakout session panels and presentations are still being accepted. Highlights include:

The transference the Hulk Hogan autobiography on tape into my possession.

attended class), the 1980s hotbed of cabin fatty pickups and hookups Jukebox Saturday Night, the Minnesota History Museum (where I believe the dunk tank used to drench Larry Nelson at the previously mentioned landmark is preserved for current and future generations of Minnesotans and rasslin' fans to pay no heed to and saunter past

Volunteering at the Friendship Village nursing home and tossing our empty beer cans at the disoriented and sure to already be highly agitated Verne Gagne.

Procuring freshly cooked meth, fireworks, bootleged DVD's, gently used porno mags, and counterfeit boomboxes out of the back of Buck Zumhoffe's late 1970s model rape van.

Urban exploring adventures at the abandoned meccas of cheap beer manufacturing, the old Schmidt's and Hamm's breweries. I anticipate that the tastings will be complimentary.

Enticing the girls at Augie's to recreate The Donovan via generous compensation passed through a slot in the Plexiglas window.

Hosting a barbecue and live rasslin' party in my spacious backyard featuring an adorable, teeny, most certainly unsafe ring and a shirtless Buck Zumhoffe removing his trousers in an impetuous, startling and highly unsettling fashion.

BTW, to get the discounted rate at the Dorothy Day Center, just tell 'em that you are here for the Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference and Fan Conclave. The promotional code is "hobo camp."

What the fawk are you waiting for? Book yr tix to the Twin Cities, Facebuster nation! Do it...NOW!!!

Monday, April 20, 2009

...Mick Foley becoming TNA! Heavyweight Champion, genetic freak Scott Steiner busting out a Franksteiner, and all around great guy Bobby Lashley debuting at last night's orgy of six sided steel caged antics otherwise known as the Lockdown Pay Per View are as follows:

Monday, April 13, 2009

I experienced no small amount of heart(heh)ache upon discovering that the trailer for "Ted Hart's Truth and Reality" had been pulled from the youtubes. Besides rendering most of the jokes in my post incomprehensible, it also created a yawning void in my soul... a void that could only be filled by footage of Teddy Hart drinking, buying iced-out Jesus necklaces, and eating burritos. A void that howled for the sweet, soothing, emotionally blank voice of the film's narrator reading (awkwardly) off of cue cards. A void, in short, that is FILLED TO BURSTIN' by the brand new trailer shown above!!!!

So, it looks like they changed the title of this little baby from "Ted Hart's Truth and Reality" to the MUCH less awkward "A Hart Sill Pounding: The Truth and Reality of Ted Hart: The Tribulations and Triumphs of Ted Hart." Awesome. They also seem to have scrapped the bulk of the film in order to make room for footage of the new "Lucha Libre" chapter in Our Ted's stunning career.

Thrill! To the finest flippity-floppity-floo our sport has to offer!

Gasp! At the narrator's difficulty in pronouncing Mexican place-names!

And Puzzle! At the forty-five seconds of blank screen tacked on the end of this deal, punctuated by a sudden eruption of some anonymous underground hip-hop! (Seriously, guys, I have some video-editing shareware that can snip that shit off for you, if you want.)

Friday, April 10, 2009

Dearest Facebuster readers, due to some time constraints this afternoon, I want to apologize in advance for the dearth of substantive, fully formed, acerbic and cantankerous content in this post. However, I feel a sense of duty to act as the proverbial two Advils washed down with a bloody mary, chased by a schooner of lager, capped off by a growler of subtly potent Town Hall Brewery IPA (the Fritzer knows and soon the Rev. Von. Fury will too of where and what I am speaking) cure for this site's post-WrestleMania hangover by putting up some fresh content ...even as I am in the midst of grappling and coming to grips with a particularly unsettling recent development.

Folks, we're talking sprawled out on the couch, too kicked to lift the remote and flip the channel off of (or in my case "to") The Jenny Jones Show, particularly an episode wantonly exploiting

Based upon Ricky Steamboat's totally solid work against Chris Jericho at WrestleMania XXV and in convoluted eight man tag team action on Monday Night RAW after a FIFTEEN year absence from any in-ring competition that hopefully has encouraged over-compensated, under-talented lumbering stiffs at least twenty years the Dragon's younger like *cue up Undertaker voice* Batista, Mark Henry, Kane, The Great Khali, The Big Shew, Snitsky, Dolph Ziger, Cryme Time members Shad and JTG, Mike Knox, Kozlov, Ezekiel Jackson, Mr. Kennedy, The Miz, Santina/o Morella, Golddust, Paul Burchill, "The Innovator of flimsy Trash Can Lid and Cookie Sheet Related Violence" Tommy Dreamer, Jesse, Festus, Hawkins, Ryder and about sixteen of the nineteen divas currently on the active roster to think long and hard before climbing into the ring again and inevitability humiliating themselves and by association the company that frustratingly continues to keep him/her in the ranks of the gainfully employed, I think it is only fitting to further lay out the attributes that made/make Ricky Steamboat one of the greatest performers in the history of the business, as well as some intriguing minutiae.

Off the top of my head, these include:

The deepest and most seamlessly executed arm drag.

Egoless wrestling. Or if you prefer, a mastery of the art of giving and the art of taking punishment.

Versatility: The ability to work both a technical/counter/mat-based style and a more of fast paced, high flying style.

A body of work that includes some of the greatest rasslin' contests of all time with Ric Flair throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s culminating with their near flawless 1989 trilogy/wrestling clinic fought over the NWA World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship, not to mention epic battles with Randy Savage in 1987 and at WrestleMania III, The Dangerous Alliance (Rick Rude, Arn Anderson, Steve Austin, Bobby Eaton, and Larry Zbyszko) in WCW circa 1991/1992, Tully Blanchard at Starrcade 1984, and even Lex Luger at The Great American Bash 1989.

Slightly less memorable and compelling but still totally solid feuds and matches with the likes of Jake Roberts, Don Muraco, and Jack and Jerry Brisco (along with tag team partner Jay Youngblood)

An entire career spent as a babyface. That's right, not one heel turn/run in his 25+ year career. And an enduringly sympathetic one at that.

He was a mainstay in the Mid Atlantic territory, one of the cornerstones responsible for the revitalization of that promotion in the late 1970s and thus instrumental in putting promoter Jim Crockett in the position to move for national expansion of his territory and consolidation of the National Wrestling Alliance (Steamboat would defect to the WWF before this plan could be fully actualized).

Alright, enough of my homage paying jibber jabber. Let's get to some rasslin': the ending portion of Steamboat vs. Terry Funk from June of 1989 (NWA Clash of the Champions). The back story: Flair won the NWA Title (his sixth) back from Steamboat a month earlier. At the end of the 30+ minute contest, Terry Funk, who was at ringside acting as a guest judge in case the match went to a draw in order to determine a winner, promptly approached Flair to congratulate him and challenge him. Flair told him that he would need to "get in line" and beat some of the finest competition the NWA has to offer in order to earn a shot. Not too enamored with this sage advice, Funk attacked Flair and pile drove him on a ringside table, fracturing his neck. Steamboat was subsequently booked to take on Funk and, in an unspoken way, avenge his long-time but still respected adversary's injury.

Oh, and while this clip features *yawn* yet another late 1980s/early 1990s "Total Package" Lex Luger heel turn (if my memory and count are accurate, I count at least seven face/heel turns between Luger's debut in 1986 through 1991), it also includes quite possibly the most violent clotheslines you'll ever witness.

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Back off, vultures. You'll get yr 'Mania recap when I sober up, and not a moment before.

In th' meantime, feast yr weary eyes on this madcap bit of gold from AAA Wrestling in Mexico. It is there that our beloved and long-suffering Teddy Hart has at last found sweet solace (tagging, at least intermittently, with our also-beloved and also-long-suffering Sabu!). It is also there that th' Univision Network is broadcasting directily into th' Pencil Neck Geek's brand spankin' new DVR unit! So while the rest of you suckers watch Mark Henry vs. Batista and Umaga in a Triple Threat Bra And Panties Match, th' Facebuster Massive will be soaking up some Grade-A International Flavor! Gravy!

Sorry about the editing on this clip, btw. It's bad enough to give WSX Fans fits (quiet down, you three), but what do you expect from a youtube clip of an eight man ladder match? Just drink another beer, it helps with the seizures.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

Indeed, good fans as some here at Arabian Facebuster like to say "Stakes Is High".

As the Twenty Fifth Anniversary of our dearly beloved Wrestlemania fast approaches, I'd just like to add just a tiny bit of inspiration for those lucky enough to be able to attend in the flesh our North Portland Sunday service for the faithful.

You see, it's not enough to just place all our early eggs in one basket with just one massive wager. We here need something, or someone, to look upon during the inevitable dark moments of our impending grappling nuptials and derive from it, or him, strength, poise, and inspiration:

"...For woe unto him he who fails to fully slacken his thirst first in the intitiary Communion challenge known now and anon as "Chug-A-Beer". For he who so failith will be bequeathed, nay Anointed, with this divine polyester shirt. Behold unto us, its mighty spikey like flames. A divine fashion forward piece of 90's tailer park ice filtered beer menthol and rap-metal Whisky Tango pret-a-portier shall don he and he compelled to don it. And Behold! We shall for the duration of the debacle, much to his chagrin and the inevitable tee-hee's of we, his immediate and faithful peers, know him as "Randy"..." revs.4:32 1/2

Friday, April 03, 2009

"There's no Hope with Dope" is not only the name for the PSA the Bayside gang made with Brandon Tartakoff after finding out that hunky teen hearthrob and certified bad boy Johnny Dakota was a dastardly, two-bit reefer fiend that cared more about getting stoned and then into Kelly Kapowski's floral print capri pants than making sure his fanbase of impressionable youngsters were steering clear of the junk, it is also the title of an essay written by precocious, self-righteous moralizer Jasmine McNeil on how doing drugs has produced negative, profound consequences in her life... like the time lil' Jasmine got blazed before going to a funeral, only to start tweaking out at the service and, in her state of euphoria and disorientation, climbing into the coffin with the deceased!

Jasmine's a fucking lil' iller!!!

Hey, um Jasmie, before swearing off drugs entirely, why don't you first try sitting through two doobie free hours of The Impact Zone!?!? Something tells me you'll swiftly be back out on the streets and looking to turn a couple of tricks in a dark alley on a discarded mattress soiled with a vile emission of blood, excrement, and Doritos nacho cheese dust in exchange for a hit of that sweet sweet rock.

Seriously though, from my understanding this video essay is a powerful weapon in World Wrestling Entertainment's arsenal for redirecting those that stray from the tenants of its Wellness Policy down a more virtuous path. [How's that for mixing multiple metaphors in a single sentence!?] Superstars such as Kurt Angle, Mr. Kennedy, Chris Masters, Jeff Hardy, Randy Orton, William Regal, Umaga, and Test were able to learn that there is indeed no hope with dope, lest they be cast to hell by the federation's spiritual leader and imposer of locker room justice.

Chris Jericho's (and to a lesser extent Randy "I Thought That Gym Bag Was a Toilet" Orton's) heroic attempts to keep World Wrestling Entertainment's flagship program from veering into the vortex of unwatchability (a vortex that long ago consumed and continues to hold a vice like grip on TNA!) have not gone without appreciation from all of us here at Arabian Facebuster. In particular, our esoteric truth seeking enterprise's spiritual guru and foremost connoisseur of savory waffles washed down with deeply discounted half-racks of sweet sweet microbrews from the local toiletries emporium -- Rev Von. Fury -- has pointed to the Jericho-Flair in-ring confrontation on RAW from a couple of weeks back (which resulted in Flair's watch commemorating his final match/retirement being destroyed, clothes being ripped, and ostrich shoes that cost more than this and these combined being tossed into thesea of humanoids at ringside) as the apex of these efforts to once again infuse some sophisticated, perversely sympathetic/justifiable, cerebral, and much needed heeldom into a promotion preoccupied with turning John Cena into a movie star, shilling merchandise that appears to be designed by the same individuals responsible for the unfortunate late-90s trailer park rap/metal fusion band aesthetic, and finding new and exciting ways to yet again interweave the McMahon family into main event storylines.

As Arabian Facebuster's self-appointed rasslin' historian, I want to bring to yr attention the fact that this aforementioned Jericho-Flair confrontation and subsequent Flair humiliation has its creative roots in (or least bares a striking similarity to) a famous angle from Mid-Atlantic Wrestling circa 1978 involving Flair and Steamboat, who were embroiled in a feud over the then prestigious U.S. Heavyweight Title.

Some disparate thoughts on this clip:(1) Even though he was still three years away from winning his first World Title, you can see that Flair had already finely honed his cocky heel persona and incensed reaction after getting his just comeuppance.

(2) This "Flair gets pantsed" bit would be utilized 12 years later to advance Flair-Steamboat's momentous feud over the NWA World Heavyweight Title which produced the greatest triology of matches in North American professional rasslin' history. Off the top of my head, I'm not sure if they dusted the bit off again in 1994 for their final feud with each other, or utilized it in late 1983/1984 when Flair and Steamboat first fought over the NWA Title culminating in them headlining the May 29, 1984 "Night of Champions" supercard in the Meadowlands which was NWA's initial attempt to promote a card in/invade the WWF's home turf.

(3) Play-by-play announcer Bob Caudle is superb in his straight-man role in this segment. By contrast, without anyone around to taunt as a "bald head geek," the only thing David Crockett is adequate at is holding Flair's title with a limp wrist and after a night of convivial degeneracy on the town with The Nature Boy, gleefully accepting his unwanted and/or used up North Cakalacky cabin fatties for his own personal desecration.

Please enjoy this enduring moment in the history of professional wrestling!

Oh, and for those that have been living under a rock, festering in 6'X6' cell, or crashing on Apollo's living room floor and using his back issues of Pro Wrestling Illustrated as a makeshift blankie, let me get you caught up on the contours of this present-day quarrel: (a) Jericho is feuding with a group of pro wrestlings legends/old timers anchored by Ric Flair; (b) Jericho will be taking on Steamboat (amongst others) this Sunday; (c) based on the participants involved in this feud/match Jericho is inadvertently feuding with the legacy of Mid Atlantic Wrestling; (d) Flair will be inducting Steamboat, his greatest in-ring rival and opponent, into the WWE Hall of Fame; and (e) Bottom Line Stone Cold Steve Austin will be showing up to avenge the aged yet prideful legends and to help me avoid having to listen attentively to then write about Hulk Hogan's no-doubt self-congratulatory autobiography.